The Stone Gallows (22 page)

‘Can't really remember. We finished the night in the Panda.'

‘Classy,' I said.

He meant Cleopatra's Zoo, the notorious

‘Gentleman's Club' that doubled as a knocking shop. ‘You can't inter-face in a more informal environment than that.'

‘I seem to remember buying a lot of tequila shooters.'

‘You really know how to entertain your clients.'

‘You'd think they had never been to a strip club before.'

‘Did they behave themselves?'

‘Both of them disappeared for a suspiciously long time, and when they came back, they had smiles on their faces. Gave me a handshake guarantee on the contract.'

‘Who did they go with? Any idea?'

‘Starla.'

I knew the girl he meant. She was dirty brunette that would do it all for a choc ice. I had no doubt that Barry and Gary had enjoyed interfacing with her on an informal basis. ‘When do you get something in writing?'

‘They said they would get the contracts ready for signing today. I'm meeting them for dinner at their hotel tonight. I'm not sure my liver's up to it.'

Joe was selling himself short. His liver was probably the fittest part of his body. Had to be, the amount of exercise it got.

‘So are you coming in to the office at all today?'

‘Maybe later this afternoon. When I feel better.'

‘I've got something that will make you feel better. A cheque from Victor Leslie for ten grand.'

‘Ten grand? I thought it was less than that.'

‘Victor was extremely impressed with our diligence.'

‘You're right. I do feel better.'

‘Want me to put it in the bank?'

‘Yeah. And the extra's yours. Like a bonus. Fair enough?'

‘Fair enough. What do you want me to do for the rest of the day?'

‘You got anything you can do?'

‘You mean, do I have routine busywork I can be pressing on with while you spend the rest of the day recovering from your hangover?'

‘Don't forget that this is a work-related hangover. I got it because I gave up my precious evening to entertain two potential clients.

I would much rather have spent the evening with my lovely wife. It wouldn't hurt you to make a few sacrifices like I do.'

‘Since when is taking two clients out on the piss a sacrifice? And I thought Becky was at the London Book Fair?'

‘Fuck you, Stone.' He was laughing when as he spoke. ‘She's due back tonight. Did you go to the granny farm?'

‘Yeah.' I told him everything that happened, including my clumsy attempt to ask Maureen Black out.'

He chortled. ‘So she shot you down in flames. I knew I should have done it.'

‘You wouldn't have fared any better.'

‘I've been told I have a certain charm.' He paused, gave a series of hacking coughs. Joe smoked about thirty a day, and the Panda was notorious for overdoing it on the dry ice. His lungs would need a rest.

‘Anyhoo. There's probably not a lot you can do right now, not with Ian Sloan being away in London. Is all the paperwork up to date?'

‘Just about.'

‘Then take the day off. Alright?'

‘Cheers, boss. Give me a phone if anything crops up.'

I hung up, aware how lucky I was to have a boss like Joe. The day (well, most of it, anyway) stretched out before me, full of promise.

Life was good.

I should have known something bad was going to happen.

8.3.

The first thing I did after depositing Leslie's cheque in the company account was phone Liz and ask her if she wanted to go out for lunch. She sounded pleased to hear from me. ‘I can't. I'm doing a back shift. They phoned half an hour ago.'

I tried and failed to think of something to say that didn't sound disappointed and needy. ‘That's a shame.'

‘I'll be home at ten. You could make me a late supper.'

‘What would you like?'

‘You. Covered in chocolate sauce.'

Fair enough. ‘You can have that for after. How about I make you. . .' I hesitated. ‘. . . smoked salmon and branglemashed eggs?'

‘That sounds very posh.'

‘It's not.'

‘What the hell are branglemashed eggs?'

‘Uh. . . they're like scrambled eggs.'

‘Like?'

‘Alright then. They are scrambled eggs.'

‘I see. And you think that giving them a different name makes them more impressive?'

‘That was the general idea.'

‘Alright then. Branglemash away. And can I suggest one alteration?'

‘What's that?'

‘Bacon. I'm not a big fan of fish. They're underwater aliens.'

‘Bacon and Eggs.' I pretended to be disappointed. ‘You're easily satisfied.'

‘Not that easily, Buster,' she said. ‘Don't forget the chocolate sauce.'

I hung up and tucked my phone into my pocket, aware that I had a clownish grin on my face. I snickered to myself as I drove down Renfield Street.

What next, that was the question. It was too nice to go home and spend the day on the couch reading Stephen King novels. For the past five days there had been a run of clear days where the low autumn sun divided the landscape into patches of light and shadow. In the sunlight, it could almost have been late August, but in shadow you could sense the approaching winter. For some reason, I found myself thinking of the park, and wishing that I had a dog. That would be fine, to watch a golden Lab bouncing around the golden leaves.

Finer still if Mark could watch with me.

I was still pissed off about Saturday, about sitting in the cold outside Audrey's house feeling like a fool, hoping that she had just taken Mark with her while she nipped down to the shops to buy a pint of milk. Worse than feeling foolish was the sensation of impotent, frustrated anger. Audrey had the entire week to turn Mark against me;

I relied on a few precious weekend hours to undo the damage. My mistake of the other day – thinking that Arnold might be up to something nasty – had been unpleasant, and afterward I had found myself wondering about my reaction. I had jumped to a conclusion based on nothing more than a throwaway remark from a seven year old. Was it possible that I was so desperate to prove Audrey an unfit mother that I had wanted there to be a problem? If so, then I should be ashamed of myself.

That was a matter for another day. Thinking about Mark had called another, younger child to mind. There was something itching at the back of my subconscious. I'd ignored the itch for a while now, procrastinating, always finding something better to do. Now that I had most of the day to myself, it was time.

I had to go back to where it all began.

8.4.

Gallowgate, Glasgow.

It had been a while.

I hadn't been back since the night of the accident, which in itself was quite a feat. Glasgow's a small city, small enough that it's hard to avoid a particular place just because it makes your balls want to crawl back up inside your body.

I did the math in my head. Ten months, six days. And about eight hours, give or take a few minutes. Happy Cammieverysorry.

It was busier in daylight. Cars were parked nose to tail on both sides of the street. Buses lurched back and forth in a squeal of hydraulic brakes and exhaust fumes. Pedestrians moved from shop to shop, looking for anything and everything. Because it was a weekday, the Barras market was closed, but there were plenty of other places to buy discount leather goods and bootleg compact discs.

I watched.

There was a transit van double parked on the spot where it had happened, an Asian man unloading boxes and carrying them into a shop. It was slow work, because he could only carry two boxes at a time and he had to lock the back of the van between trips to prevent some opportunist lightening his load.

Glasgow is a city of opportunists. And optimists. And people like me.

I looked at the road and wondered if there had been blood. Of course there had been. There had been blood on the windscreen of the car. Lots of it. And brains. It had been raining that night. How long had it taken to wash away? If I asked one of the Scene of Crime Officers to gown up in a white plastic suit to swab the area and look at things underneath an ultraviolet light, would there still be any trace? Would there be anything left of Maria, of baby Sonata Blue?

Probably not.

It would be so easy to get out, to go over to the spot, to walk on the ground where it had happened. To remember them. They deserved it.

And yet, I couldn't make myself do it. I just couldn't.

Pathetic.

I thought about my own life, and how much I would give to change the past.

Anything.

Almost anything.

The guilt was crushing. My good mood was gone, and rightly so. I shouldn't be happy. I didn't deserve it. Maria McAuseland wasn't happy. Neither was her daughter.

They were just dead.

Because of me.

The Asian man finished unloading his van and drove away. I stayed in the car. All I was doing was raking over old coals. Maria and Sonata were dead and gone, and it was my fault; that was how it was and how it would stay. To expect some kind of epiphany to release me from my guilt was self-serving and tasteless. I gave myself a mental kick up the backside. It didn't help much, but I felt a little weight lift from my shoulders.

Three kids made their way along the street in matching hooded tops and track suit bottoms. On their feet were brightly coloured training shoes that were probably endorsed by their favourite football stars. As they walked past the spot where the accident had happened, one of them casually spat into the middle of the road. I felt the sudden heat of white hot rage. It would be so easy to start the engine and chase the little bastard down. How fast could he run in his expensive footballer's trainers?

Chill. Just because somebody is ignorant and dirty is not an excuse to mow them down like a vengeful maniac. They were just three kids playing hooky from school. In five years time, Mark could be one of them, especially if his mother continued with her current strategy of giving him everything he wanted except attention.

Mark would be at school right now. I'd asked Audrey if he got good or bad reports, and her response had been vague to say the least. To me, he seemed bright enough, always questioning the why or the how of things, and I knew for a fact that he could read because he knew the menu at McDonalds like the back of his hand, able to understand meal-deals and promotional offers with a speed that was scary and slightly depressing. He could probably program the DVD recorder as well.

The three boys had moved on, to be replaced by two teenage girls in tight jeans and boots. Both of them were smoking, cigarettes held prominently between two forefingers so that everybody could see how cool they were. As they flicked ash onto the tarmac, I wondered if anybody from the east end of Glasgow ever bothered going to school. The question was more than rhetorical; a closer look told me that there were hundreds of kids wandering the streets, some with parents, some mooching around with friends. None were in school uniform.

I remembered something that Mark had said to me the other day.

At the time, I hadn't really paid much attention – we had been in the queue at McDonalds and I was trying to figure out whether or not salad came with a Happy Meal or was extra – but it had obviously sunk home. Today was some kind of in-service training day, and the schools were closed. It took me less than three seconds to dial Audrey's number. As usual, she sounded overjoyed to hear from me.

‘What do you want?'

I decided to make small talk to butter her up. ‘How are you?'

‘Oh, I'm just fine.'

Except that something in her tone told me that she was being sarcastic. I waited.

‘Your bloody son managed to drop an entire bottle of tomato juice all over my new settee. Instead of picking the damn thing up, he ran to fetch me, which would have been fine except I was in the fucking shower. By the time I got there the thing was soaked.'

I smiled. ‘That's terrible.'

‘It's going to stain.'

‘What colour is the settee?'

‘Originally? Cream.'

Good lad. ‘I thought that club soda was supposed to help.'

‘Well thank you, Mr Good Housekeeping. Was there a reason you called or did you just want to pass on some handy housekeeping tips?'

‘I got an unexpected day off and I remembered that Mark had the day off school as well. I wondered if perhaps you wanted him out from under your feet for a while.'

‘Mark's never “under my feet”,' Audrey said. Although her tone suggested that he was more in her firing line.

‘Where is he now?'

‘In his bedroom. Playing with drain-cleaner, hopefully. Did you know that Domestos kills ninety-nine point nine percent of all known children dead?'

Appalled, I said nothing. After a short silence, she said, ‘I'm sorry.

That was an awful thing to say.'

She was right, but now wasn't the time to point out Audrey's flaws as a parent. ‘Maybe I could take him out for a while? I could come by and collect him.' I pretended that an idea had just struck me. ‘I could take him to see that
Get Fish!
movie.'

‘He's seen it. My sister took him.'

‘It was just an idea. Come on, Audrey. You could go to the Tanning Salon. You were looking kind of pale the last time I saw you.'

‘You know, you can't just come and pick him up when you feel like it.'

I decided that it wouldn't be wise to point out that she was the one who behaved like that. ‘Please, Audrey.'

‘Alright. But have him back by five, and no McDonalds, alright?'

‘Alright.'

It would be Burger King instead.

8.5.

I didn't even need ring the doorbell. The car had barely come to a halt before Mark flew out of the house and jumped in. He kissed me on the cheek before fastening his seatbelt.